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jonscott9's reviews
206 reviews
Evening Crowd at Kirmser's: A Gay Life in the 1940s by Ricardo J. Brown
3.0
From University of Minnesota Press, a breezy, dishy, affecting read about the camaraderie among the attentive goers at a downtown St. Paul bar that became a haven for blue-collar folks, namely the underground gay men's scene in the '40s. (By the by, in a couple decades, we'll no longer be able to simply call them "the '40s." Let that set in.) The writing here is detailed yet spare, interesting and journalistic. It lets a creative reader play witness to exchanges at the bar counter, then fill in the blanks and create subtexts and subplots as to what took place outside these pages.
This group is shrewd yet wide-eyed, forlorn yet yearning. The troupe of regulars slinks in and out of the bar, secretive and survivalist in their nightly kinship and dalliances, but open-hearted and hopeful when among their own. How times change, and in some ways, how not much changes at all.
This group is shrewd yet wide-eyed, forlorn yet yearning. The troupe of regulars slinks in and out of the bar, secretive and survivalist in their nightly kinship and dalliances, but open-hearted and hopeful when among their own. How times change, and in some ways, how not much changes at all.
The Maytrees by Annie Dillard
4.0
No doubt that a solid portion of my relishing in this novel is due to it being 1) Annie Dillard, in her last original work, and 2) set in Provincetown, Massachusetts, and 3) I read the bulk of it like a literalist, whilst vacationing in P-town. Enjoying this beside a private pool, in the bay's clean air, was a real treat.
Old Cape Cod, you're beautiful. And the prose here is the same: typical Dillard stuff, gorgeous and lush and tight all at once. Her depictions of the natural world, at length or in passing, remain elegant as ever, and the love between Toby and Lou Maytree, among other loves in the book, is one for the ages. It's not overwrought; it's born of friendship and admiration and beauty in the mundane. It's one for a pristine little art film, really. Who needs that epic new take on Dune when you could have the dunes of the Cape, and all the follies, maladies, tragedies and triumphs had on them, transferred to the silver screen?
The dialogue is spare, and notably arrives sans quote marks throughout, even as the characters' internal monologues are protracted, vivid and forgiving, of self and others. I would like to think, to myself and about myself, the way some of these people think. Pity they're not real, never have been, though for just over 200 pages (my favorite length to any book, esp. a novel), they came to life for me. I kept thinking I saw them around that tiny oceanside hamlet. I kept casting a film version of the book before my eyes as I walked those blocks and popped in and out of crab-tastic eateries, galleries and shops. The only sliver of a downer for me was the last-page conclusion, which had been built up by a reviewer or two. I read it a few times, and maybe I didn't quite get it, but it held a bit less of a payoff than I'd hoped for -- perhaps just as any idyllic vacation plainly has to come to an end.
Old Cape Cod, you're beautiful. And the prose here is the same: typical Dillard stuff, gorgeous and lush and tight all at once. Her depictions of the natural world, at length or in passing, remain elegant as ever, and the love between Toby and Lou Maytree, among other loves in the book, is one for the ages. It's not overwrought; it's born of friendship and admiration and beauty in the mundane. It's one for a pristine little art film, really. Who needs that epic new take on Dune when you could have the dunes of the Cape, and all the follies, maladies, tragedies and triumphs had on them, transferred to the silver screen?
The dialogue is spare, and notably arrives sans quote marks throughout, even as the characters' internal monologues are protracted, vivid and forgiving, of self and others. I would like to think, to myself and about myself, the way some of these people think. Pity they're not real, never have been, though for just over 200 pages (my favorite length to any book, esp. a novel), they came to life for me. I kept thinking I saw them around that tiny oceanside hamlet. I kept casting a film version of the book before my eyes as I walked those blocks and popped in and out of crab-tastic eateries, galleries and shops. The only sliver of a downer for me was the last-page conclusion, which had been built up by a reviewer or two. I read it a few times, and maybe I didn't quite get it, but it held a bit less of a payoff than I'd hoped for -- perhaps just as any idyllic vacation plainly has to come to an end.
Vulnerable AF by Tarriona Ball
3.0
"I never thought I expected anything from you
Until the day you hugged me like amnesia"
Midway through this quick little tome of poems comes "Expectations," one of the longer pieces and perhaps its best (excerpt above). The sum of it all is from the lead singer of Tank and the Bangas, an infectious personality and a giver of thrilling live-show experiences.
Some great lines come and go throughout this 90-pager, read in a standalone evening, which felt appropriate for the topic. A lot of heartrending memories -- sometimes made universal, sometimes esoteric -- that speak to all the stages of post-relationship grief.
A good deal of it reminded me of "getting xangry" or "xangsty," as I used to call it on ye olde Xanga blogs. (Probably LiveJournal, or the equivalent, for those of a similar, particular, older-but-young vintage.) That's not a dig, though some of the pieces seem underdeveloped, at least in writing. Methinks I'd have liked the audiobook better, as read by the author. Tarriona "Tank" Ball started as a slam poet, and is such an expressive speaker-singer-storyteller. I think that's the way to go with this one.
Until the day you hugged me like amnesia"
Midway through this quick little tome of poems comes "Expectations," one of the longer pieces and perhaps its best (excerpt above). The sum of it all is from the lead singer of Tank and the Bangas, an infectious personality and a giver of thrilling live-show experiences.
Some great lines come and go throughout this 90-pager, read in a standalone evening, which felt appropriate for the topic. A lot of heartrending memories -- sometimes made universal, sometimes esoteric -- that speak to all the stages of post-relationship grief.
A good deal of it reminded me of "getting xangry" or "xangsty," as I used to call it on ye olde Xanga blogs. (Probably LiveJournal, or the equivalent, for those of a similar, particular, older-but-young vintage.) That's not a dig, though some of the pieces seem underdeveloped, at least in writing. Methinks I'd have liked the audiobook better, as read by the author. Tarriona "Tank" Ball started as a slam poet, and is such an expressive speaker-singer-storyteller. I think that's the way to go with this one.
Things Are What You Make of Them: Life Advice for Creatives by Adam J. Kurtz
3.0
Adam Kurtz is a great follow on Instagram, for all the algorithmically dictated inspiration one needs some days. And this wham-bam little read feels like holding a series of Instagram text-graphics in your hands.
In this case, it's a good thing. The book marries pleasing, brightly-colored design with solid advice, obvious-but-relearned points well made, and quasi-platitudes. It feels a bit repetitive at times, though it's a tiny book, but there are things within these covers that I could stand to read and carry through every day of my life (certainly my working life). There's a lot that seems rudimentary, but sometimes you need to strip things down that simply and build, or rebuild, or, well, leave.
I like the color-coded sections and how that breaks up a book that next to anyone could knock out in an hour or two. The "How to Begin Again" section sticks out to me, though in reality I read this a number of months ago. Let sub-sections (or pages, really) of that such as "Don't Look Back in Anger" (yes, I thought of my not-so-darkhorse favorite Oasis song), "Retool Your Practice," "Be Accountable," and "Disappear (With Intent)" wash over you. I look forward to checking out Kurtz's new one, You Are Here (For Now).
In this case, it's a good thing. The book marries pleasing, brightly-colored design with solid advice, obvious-but-relearned points well made, and quasi-platitudes. It feels a bit repetitive at times, though it's a tiny book, but there are things within these covers that I could stand to read and carry through every day of my life (certainly my working life). There's a lot that seems rudimentary, but sometimes you need to strip things down that simply and build, or rebuild, or, well, leave.
I like the color-coded sections and how that breaks up a book that next to anyone could knock out in an hour or two. The "How to Begin Again" section sticks out to me, though in reality I read this a number of months ago. Let sub-sections (or pages, really) of that such as "Don't Look Back in Anger" (yes, I thought of my not-so-darkhorse favorite Oasis song), "Retool Your Practice," "Be Accountable," and "Disappear (With Intent)" wash over you. I look forward to checking out Kurtz's new one, You Are Here (For Now).
Notes on a Nervous Planet by Matt Haig
4.0
At the outset, it's am amazing feeling to literally finish a book's final page as one's plane hits the runway. Forever a sweetly mundane memory.
This book of memoirish self-fulfillment or self-help type thoughts is remarkably tight, light and heavy all at once. It feels a bit odd to say, but I love how he weaves in pieces of his mental-health history, including suicidal moments, a complete meltdown, and more. In short, this book has surely saved lives.
The chapters are incredibly short, and the entire thing is immensely readable. I appreciate that, as I read more slowly as I age, for whatever reasons. The two-page chapter (section?) titled "A note from the beach" stood out to me, given I was heading to vacation on Cape Cod at the time of slam-reading this.
Some of the quotes from other writers and thinkers are wildly inspiring, and some are slightly sigh-inducing. The book comes in under 200 pages, and may be a bit padded from a formatting perspective, but that's not so much a knock as a sincere round of thanks from me for helping me meet my 2021 Goodreads goal.
Matt Haig, I am ready for your ballyhooed novel. Midnight Library, come into my world.
This book of memoirish self-fulfillment or self-help type thoughts is remarkably tight, light and heavy all at once. It feels a bit odd to say, but I love how he weaves in pieces of his mental-health history, including suicidal moments, a complete meltdown, and more. In short, this book has surely saved lives.
The chapters are incredibly short, and the entire thing is immensely readable. I appreciate that, as I read more slowly as I age, for whatever reasons. The two-page chapter (section?) titled "A note from the beach" stood out to me, given I was heading to vacation on Cape Cod at the time of slam-reading this.
Some of the quotes from other writers and thinkers are wildly inspiring, and some are slightly sigh-inducing. The book comes in under 200 pages, and may be a bit padded from a formatting perspective, but that's not so much a knock as a sincere round of thanks from me for helping me meet my 2021 Goodreads goal.
Matt Haig, I am ready for your ballyhooed novel. Midnight Library, come into my world.
How We Fight For Our Lives by Saeed Jones
4.0
Vivid. Profane. Candid. Poetic. Holy.
Saeed Jones writes with such self-awareness, clear-eyed humor, and grace. I wanted to sit across from him over any kind of drink and share stories. It would be such the wide-ranging convo about the intersections of the sacred and the secular, the spiritual and the sexual.
Jones is unsparing and unflinching, about anonymized others and himself, when it comes to dreadful encounters, dark thoughts, and bedroom details from his formative years. Kids can be so cruel. So can lovers.
Amidst his own personal accounts of harrowing racism, homophobia, graceless church people, and tough times with family and health, he somehow beautifully weds the horrors of two murders that occurred within four months of each other in 1998, those of Matthew Shepard in Wyoming and James Byrd Jr. in his native Texas. Those remembrances, interwoven with others about his own experiences, make for a seminal account of what the two hate crimes meant for those of us who came of age in the impressionable, tender late-'90s. Those remembrances spoke to me.
I could hardly set this book down whilst on vacation to Provincetown, Massachusetts, and I'm forever grateful for it. As the once-sheltered, once-closeted spawn of a Protestant pastor in the Midwest, it made me feel less alone. Isn't that what we sometimes ask of a book?
Saeed Jones writes with such self-awareness, clear-eyed humor, and grace. I wanted to sit across from him over any kind of drink and share stories. It would be such the wide-ranging convo about the intersections of the sacred and the secular, the spiritual and the sexual.
Jones is unsparing and unflinching, about anonymized others and himself, when it comes to dreadful encounters, dark thoughts, and bedroom details from his formative years. Kids can be so cruel. So can lovers.
Amidst his own personal accounts of harrowing racism, homophobia, graceless church people, and tough times with family and health, he somehow beautifully weds the horrors of two murders that occurred within four months of each other in 1998, those of Matthew Shepard in Wyoming and James Byrd Jr. in his native Texas. Those remembrances, interwoven with others about his own experiences, make for a seminal account of what the two hate crimes meant for those of us who came of age in the impressionable, tender late-'90s. Those remembrances spoke to me.
I could hardly set this book down whilst on vacation to Provincetown, Massachusetts, and I'm forever grateful for it. As the once-sheltered, once-closeted spawn of a Protestant pastor in the Midwest, it made me feel less alone. Isn't that what we sometimes ask of a book?
The Book with No Pictures by B.J. Novak
3.0
From the less prolific (as published books go) half of "Ryan and Kelly" from NBC's The Office, this is a silly, brief book to read to kids under 8. Dare I say, it was transparently and rapidly relished so as to meet my 2022 books-read goal. And glad I did the pre-work, as I need to practice some of my pronunciations for the funky, long words laid out over these few pages ahead. The point of the book is to make adults say absurd words and phrases in the presence of tiny tots with their eyes all aglow, and I already look forward to a next visit so as to sit down with this slim hardcover and my sure-to-be-captivated twin nephews. Thanks a lot, Novak.
Show Your Work!: 10 Ways to Share Your Creativity and Get Discovered by Austin Kleon
3.0
A pleasant, encouraging, sometimes inspiring little jam of a read that delivers on its title. It can be so precarious and anxiety-inducing to show another person (let alone a forum full of them, on- or offline) one's work, especially one's work in progress. To a fair degree, this helps you peel back that anxiousness and work through it (not around or past it) to be vulnerable with your writing of any kind, and other things, including emotions. That can aid any relationship at work or at play.
The Remarkable Ordinary: How to Stop, Look, and Listen to Life by Frederick Buechner
3.0
"I did not see anything because I was so caught up in an inner dialogue. So, stop and see. Become more sensitive, more aware, more alive to our own humanness, to the humanness of each other."
Frederick Buechner always does me right. I turn to his writings again and again for comfort and joy, for textual healing. Others such as Glennon Doyle, who quotes him in Untamed (currently reading), feel much the same.
Now 95, Buechner migrated from his beloved Vermont to Florida, last I knew. We exchanged notes in the post about 15 years ago, as a friend had somehow obtained his address. I was thrilled at that, and treasured the card I received back from him. (Oh how I yearn to find it among some stored-away boxes.) A Presbyterian minister in part, a vocation he hardly expected when younger to fall into, Buechner reminds me of my favorite spiritual leaders over time—from a profanity-happy pastor during my college years to, well, my own father, who was a Protestant pastor until I was about 10 years old and whose vintage, pocket-size portrait circa 1979 I used as a bookmark while reading this tiny, tender book.
Among my favorite parts of this read are Buechner's memories of an unlikely though beautiful friendship with Maya Angelou. He thought they could not be more different. And yet, as Angelou shared with him, their stories are the same in remarkable ways. Pain, tragedy, grief, beauty, love, resilience—these are the shared human story. The passages with Angelou are alone worth your time, and for those who read faster than me, the book itself probably can be read in one sitting.
Buechner was a Pulitzer finalist for Godric, which is a masterpiece of fiction. The writing can be a bit repetitive and flowery at times when he does nonfiction and dips into autobiographical, sociological and theological territories. At the same time, such intra-book reminders can be a good thing. (Repetition of message, right?)
This is where I leave you with another morsel of goodness:
“So we are told to love. We are told to listen. We are told to look. But a lot of the time we don’t because we choose damn well not to, and because only a saint could do it all the time, I think. You have to choose who to listen to because if you listen to everybody and you look at everybody—seeing every face the way Rembrandt saw that woman’s face—how could you make it down half a city block? You couldn’t. If you listened to what everybody says to you, how could you survive a day? But we can do more than we do—more than we do, surely we could do that.”
Frederick Buechner always does me right. I turn to his writings again and again for comfort and joy, for textual healing. Others such as Glennon Doyle, who quotes him in Untamed (currently reading), feel much the same.
Now 95, Buechner migrated from his beloved Vermont to Florida, last I knew. We exchanged notes in the post about 15 years ago, as a friend had somehow obtained his address. I was thrilled at that, and treasured the card I received back from him. (Oh how I yearn to find it among some stored-away boxes.) A Presbyterian minister in part, a vocation he hardly expected when younger to fall into, Buechner reminds me of my favorite spiritual leaders over time—from a profanity-happy pastor during my college years to, well, my own father, who was a Protestant pastor until I was about 10 years old and whose vintage, pocket-size portrait circa 1979 I used as a bookmark while reading this tiny, tender book.
Among my favorite parts of this read are Buechner's memories of an unlikely though beautiful friendship with Maya Angelou. He thought they could not be more different. And yet, as Angelou shared with him, their stories are the same in remarkable ways. Pain, tragedy, grief, beauty, love, resilience—these are the shared human story. The passages with Angelou are alone worth your time, and for those who read faster than me, the book itself probably can be read in one sitting.
Buechner was a Pulitzer finalist for Godric, which is a masterpiece of fiction. The writing can be a bit repetitive and flowery at times when he does nonfiction and dips into autobiographical, sociological and theological territories. At the same time, such intra-book reminders can be a good thing. (Repetition of message, right?)
This is where I leave you with another morsel of goodness:
“So we are told to love. We are told to listen. We are told to look. But a lot of the time we don’t because we choose damn well not to, and because only a saint could do it all the time, I think. You have to choose who to listen to because if you listen to everybody and you look at everybody—seeing every face the way Rembrandt saw that woman’s face—how could you make it down half a city block? You couldn’t. If you listened to what everybody says to you, how could you survive a day? But we can do more than we do—more than we do, surely we could do that.”
Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder
5.0
You may know the book's title from a Haitian saying made famous in a way by the band Arcade Fire, whose co-founder Régine Chassagne is of Haitian heritage. Goes the proverb, "Beyond mountains there are mountains," which basically amounts to "As you solve one problem, another shows itself."
So it goes for Dr. Paul Farmer, who in 1987 cofounded the global health organization Partners in Health. The subtitle of this book is hardly a hyperbole. Thankfully, for the people of Haiti and others around the world, he has this perspective: "If you say that seven hours is too long to walk for two families of patients, you're saying that their lives matter less than some others. And the idea that some lives matter less is the root of all that's wrong with the world."
Pulitzer winner Tracy Kidder entrenched himself in Farmer's world. That's in such a gripping way that he has no choice but to entrench himself specifically in the world of the poor, namely in Haiti's rural community of people stricken by poverty and disease (tuberculosis, HIV/AIDS and more).
I read this tome after meeting Farmer at a global health event at my former employer's headquarters. Further, someone I served on a board with was a classmate of his from Duke, and we shared that strange, small-world camaraderie. He signed (and dated) my copy of the book, with a two-sentence note made out to me personally after a longer-than-expected chat with a line of people behind me. That's Paul Farmer: He plainly, earnestly wants (read: implores) people to care about others, about the world outside of themselves.
Farmer is a complicated, difficult and wonderful person. He practically has to be, as the situations he's in to help people are likewise difficult. They're incredible hard. "In his mind, he was fighting all poverty all the time, an endeavor full of difficulties and inevitable failures."
As Kidder notes, "A doctor who knew nothing about local beliefs might end up at war with Voodoo priests, but a doctor-anthropologist who understood those beliefs could find ways to make Voodoo houngans his allies." So it went for Farmer. The Haitian saying had it that the country was "90% Catholic and 100% Voodoo." Even the devoutly Christian in the country believed in voodoo; they simply believed it was wrong.
Kidder's account is remarkably compelling, well written in the manner of narrative journalism and (in the notes after its epilogue) meticulously sourced. I read it all quite slowly, over the better part of two years—though it's not too long a book—and I hoped to absorb it, to retain its substantive information.
In that I've been marginally successful. But I didn't want to forget what people have suffered under the dictatorship of Jean-Claude Duvalier. At the same time, we need to remember, and act in light of, how they suffer still. As Farmer had it, "The only time that I hear talk of shrinking resources among people like us, among academics, is when we talk about things that have to do with poor people."
We still see the headlines about Haiti. What will we do about it, about others who need help even closer to home? Dr. Paul Farmer would like to know.
So it goes for Dr. Paul Farmer, who in 1987 cofounded the global health organization Partners in Health. The subtitle of this book is hardly a hyperbole. Thankfully, for the people of Haiti and others around the world, he has this perspective: "If you say that seven hours is too long to walk for two families of patients, you're saying that their lives matter less than some others. And the idea that some lives matter less is the root of all that's wrong with the world."
Pulitzer winner Tracy Kidder entrenched himself in Farmer's world. That's in such a gripping way that he has no choice but to entrench himself specifically in the world of the poor, namely in Haiti's rural community of people stricken by poverty and disease (tuberculosis, HIV/AIDS and more).
I read this tome after meeting Farmer at a global health event at my former employer's headquarters. Further, someone I served on a board with was a classmate of his from Duke, and we shared that strange, small-world camaraderie. He signed (and dated) my copy of the book, with a two-sentence note made out to me personally after a longer-than-expected chat with a line of people behind me. That's Paul Farmer: He plainly, earnestly wants (read: implores) people to care about others, about the world outside of themselves.
Farmer is a complicated, difficult and wonderful person. He practically has to be, as the situations he's in to help people are likewise difficult. They're incredible hard. "In his mind, he was fighting all poverty all the time, an endeavor full of difficulties and inevitable failures."
As Kidder notes, "A doctor who knew nothing about local beliefs might end up at war with Voodoo priests, but a doctor-anthropologist who understood those beliefs could find ways to make Voodoo houngans his allies." So it went for Farmer. The Haitian saying had it that the country was "90% Catholic and 100% Voodoo." Even the devoutly Christian in the country believed in voodoo; they simply believed it was wrong.
Kidder's account is remarkably compelling, well written in the manner of narrative journalism and (in the notes after its epilogue) meticulously sourced. I read it all quite slowly, over the better part of two years—though it's not too long a book—and I hoped to absorb it, to retain its substantive information.
In that I've been marginally successful. But I didn't want to forget what people have suffered under the dictatorship of Jean-Claude Duvalier. At the same time, we need to remember, and act in light of, how they suffer still. As Farmer had it, "The only time that I hear talk of shrinking resources among people like us, among academics, is when we talk about things that have to do with poor people."
We still see the headlines about Haiti. What will we do about it, about others who need help even closer to home? Dr. Paul Farmer would like to know.